Each day, the architect strides into his penthouse office with two hundred and seventy degree panoramic views and a large oak display table.
Feeling like you just haven't had enough spy/CIA conspiracy in your life lately? Lacking in running, gun fights, car chases, and general confusion and accusations about the CIA? Might be time to read Panic...
The assembly look smart; boots that glisten, bayonettes that gleam, hats sitting regally as even their feathers stay firm in the gentle breeze.
If this was written before anyone had heard of the author, it would get a pretty patchy reception.
If cleanliness and orderliness are next to Godliness I would already be in heaven. A place for everything and everything in it's place; my place is among dusted shelves, knick-knacks lined up with military precision, coffee tables that have never been within spitting distance of coffee.
I do not have an addictive personality. Really. Look at me - I'm nearly twenty-eight, I don't smoke, I drink only on occasion, and I have chocolate consumption down to about once a week. On the other hand - I'm a quitter - I can give up just about anything, including university, hard work, and replying to my emails. Where am I going with this? Enough of the boring bits, onto this quasi-review of the Sims!
Public policy, budget restrictions, pandering to the moral majority, funding eccentricities, a hodgepodge of papers, politicians, tight organisation, paternalism, ignorance, apathy.
The ceremony was lazy and golden, with boquets and bumblebees and a serene joy permeating the proceedings.
If this was food, it would be a giant tub of fresh popcorn, covered in hot, molten butter, with an old-school choc top for dessert.
I keep my head down as I walk along, and it feels like I'm in a black and white movie, travelling lack-lustrely in the same direction as everyone else on the street as though we are a dull shoal of fish in blacks and greys.
In the starkness and wild of the Victorian coastal countryside, a seemingly straightforward murder is committed. Detective Joe Cashin, who is in recovery from a mentally and physically scarring encounter on the job, pushes through the veneer of simplicity, and is plunged into a dark, complex crime...
Sitting at the oak table, staring down at his spotted red tie with his knees pressed together and his hands slippery. There's muttering around the room, the whispering of chair wheels and the creaking of stiff joints, a synthesis of old men, money and expensive suits.
If this was about a pubescent boy instead of a pubescent girl, it would confirm everything a certain sort of person likes to pretend lurks primarily within the purview of the homosexual mindset. But it isn't, so deal with it, heteros.
I loosen my suspender and slide my device for devious journalists over my tweed skirt and onto my lap.
How do you know it's going to turn out exactly as you think it will down to the last painful ellipses? Probably the proud "international bestseller" label, partially covered by the "$2 Kmart" pricetag. Redeeming feature? It was purchased by someone else.
When I wake under a laughable cliche of starched white sheets for the same day in a row I realise my recovery is not complete by any stretch of the elastic nightgown although my operation is complete and a success.
A slow man, a dead man, and a baby - Blaze is a soft-pseudo noir novel with a little crime and a big personality, discarded then resurrected by Stephen King.
Imitation vanilla essence;
gun powder, thingumies and lint.
Neverwhere is a whimsical tale about a man called Richard, doors, rats, myths, and what really happens underneath London.